“I have liv’d long enough: my way of lifeIs fall’n into the sear and yellow leaf.”Shakspeare.
“I have liv’d long enough: my way of lifeIs fall’n into the sear and yellow leaf.”Shakspeare.
“I have liv’d long enough: my way of life
Is fall’n into the sear and yellow leaf.”
Shakspeare.
It might be supposed that, now Mr. Tippetson had very clearly relinquished all intention of offering his hand to Clara, and Miss Henderson had appointed Dr. Crack successor to Mr. Markham, no objection or impediment lay in the way of the last-named gentleman to prevent a regular and formal offer of his heart toClara Rivolta. So for a moment he thought, and but for a moment. Most curiously do actual events seem to amuse themselves by opposing and contradicting human anticipations.
One morning when there was no business in Westminster Hall, and when Markham, after a late and lounging breakfast in his chamber, was preparing to saunter to the west, and spend his morning and, if Mr. Martindale pleased, his day with Clara Rivolta, just as he had drawn the brush round his hat, that daily author of ten thousand times ten thousand palpitations, the postman, brought him a letter, on which he recognised the hand-writing of his father; but the young man thought that the writing seemed of an unsteadier hand than usual, and he was alarmed.
We have hitherto said little or next to nothing concerning Markham’s father. Our reason for so doing is, that the elder Markham was a linen-draper; and we were very naturally afraid lest any of our readers should for a moment suppose that we knew any thing about such vulgar people. As the subject, however,must be introduced, we hope that our readers will imagine that all the knowledge we have of the linen-draper cast has been derived from some cyclopedia or dictionary of universal knowledge.
When Markham opened the letter, he was still more grieved and surprised to find that its brief and hastily-written contents announced his father’s failure. It had been the young man’s opinion and full persuasion, that his father had been for a shopkeeper rather an opulent man. In such towns as he dwelt in, though the gentry look down with contempt upon shopkeepers, yet there are among shopkeepers an almost infinite variety of gradations and degrees of dignity and rank. Mr. Markham the elder was one of the principal shopkeepers, and he held his head considerably above many of the tradespeople in his own town; and his intimacy was rather with professional than with trading people. But, unfortunately, in order to keep up his rank in society, he had lived somewhat too expensively; and by the untoward introduction of an underselling,semi-roguish draper into the town, Mr. Markham’s business fell off most pitiably, and he was compelled to propose to his creditors the horrors of a composition. We say here, and in this instance, the horrors of a composition, inasmuch as to such a man as Mr. Markham there was something in it most truly distressing and painful. We have indeed heard that there are those who by means of such arrangements grow wealthy, and unblushingly rise in the world; these, we apprehend, can never become part of the Corinthian capital of society, they may be rather described as of the Composite order.
This calamity, which had so unexpectedly befallen the elder Markham, afflicted him most deeply; and he communicated the information to his son in language so desponding, and with such broken-heartedness, that the young man was quite overwhelmed with the information. Breaking through every other engagement, he hastened down to the country to condole with his father on the calamity which had overtaken him; and not without some faint hope thatthere might be a possibility of averting the blow.
The letter simply stated that a composition had been proposed. Markham the younger, therefore, thought that it might perhaps be within the compass of his power to obviate the necessity of bringing that negotiation to a conclusion. He made therefore as rapid and at the same time as accurate a calculation as he could of the means which were in his power, and forthwith hastened to the scene of perplexity and difficulty.
As he entered the abode of his infancy, he saw, or fancied he saw, a melancholy change. The furniture of the apartment looked as if it had been neglected. The whole house appeared gloomy and still; but worst of all, when his poor father came into the room and took his son by the hand, there was a hardness in the pressure, but no cordiality. Markham thought that his father’s hand felt cold, and he saw that his dress lacked its usual neatness, while the countenance was pale, and the voice was tremulous, and the eye looked downwards. Theyoung man would fain have made the meeting cheerful, but his sympathy with his father’s sorrow was stronger than the father’s sympathy with the young man’s buoyant spirits and hopeful thoughts. Markham caught the contagion of his father’s sorrow; and after some vain attempts to put a cheerful aspect on the matter, he ventured to say:
“But is there no remedy to be suggested? It is not much that is in my power at this very moment; but I do trust that I might shortly be able to command all that may be wanted.”
The father averted his face to conceal the tears which he could not suppress; and he extended his hand towards his son. The young man took the offered hand, pressed it, and was for some minutes silent. With difficulty the elder Markham replied:
“No, no, my dear boy, I will not hear a word about involving you in my troubles. You are beginning life, I am finishing my course. It is one comfort to me that I shall not leave you destitute: and perhaps when I am gone, you will not neglect your poor mother. It iskind of you to come down to see us in our troubles: my portion in them will be but short; and when I am gone, I hope and trust you will continue attentive to your dear mother. You owe much to her care, and I am sure you will not forget her. Poor thing! she will see you presently, but her spirits are very much agitated. She knows you are come. It is a great blessing to us, my dear boy, that you have succeeded so well in the world.”
To this and much more did Markham the younger lend a painful and reluctant attention; but he was too much distressed to trust his voice to interrupt the desultory talk of his afflicted father. It was indeed very afflictive to him that, at the very time when he was, by means of an honorable and diligent application to the duties of his profession, rising in the world both in wealth and reputation, there should come suddenly and unexpectedly upon him this drawback to his success; for he could not for a moment admit the idea of enjoying his prosperity while his father should be living under the unpleasant consciousness that hisdebts were but partially discharged. After a little more conversation, and when the first uneasiness of their painful meeting had been somewhat abated, the young man very earnestly, but respectfully, desired to be informed concerning the particulars of his father’s embarrassments, and the amount of the claims upon him. This inquiry, so humiliating to a parent and to a man of such feelings as the elder Markham, was managed by the young barrister with so exquisitely delicate address, that instead of grieving and irritating, it rather soothed and composed the father’s mind. There was also a happy and pleasing consciousness that there had been, on his own part, no impropriety or inaccuracy of conduct; the misfortune was simply and purely a misfortune, arising from events over which he had no control. Perhaps it would be rather too severe, and savour somewhat of moral pedantry, should we say that Mr. Markham the elder ought to have been sooner aware of his changing circumstances, and ought to have curtailed his expenses as his means diminished; and that he ought tohave known very fully and very exactly all the probabilities and possibilities of mercantile fluctuation. But even supposing him to have had some little suspicion and some faint consciousness that all was not right, it would have been a piece of magnanimity seldom witnessed in the commercial world, had he resolutely and boldly abridged very essentially his usual expenditure; and perhaps that very abridgment would have been the means of hastening the dreaded calamity. Generally speaking, we may say that the calamity in which the elder Markham was involved was not from his own imprudence.
To expose and regularly set forth the whole state of his affairs was not the work of a moment. This business, therefore, was postponed till the following day. In the mean time Markham’s mother made her appearance, wearing a much more composed aspect than the young gentleman had expected, judging from the language which his father had used. Mrs. Markham has little to do in our history; but the mother of an amiable, well-conducted, andintelligent young man is almost always an object of respect. The direction and moral habits of the youthful mind depend much on the practical wisdom of a mother. She does not indeed create the mind, but she gives its energies their first impulse. For when the infant first wakes to consciousness, and commences its converse with the world, the first ray of knowledge, and the earliest of its discriminations, beam from a mother’s eye; and the emotions of its little heart receive their modulation from the melody of a mother’s voice. And is there not an undefinable, but powerfully apprehensible difference between the voice of inanity, selfishness, and grossness, and the voice of intelligence, generosity, and purity? Is there not also as great a difference between an eye which indicates mind, and one which is but a cold glassy inlet of uninterpreted light? We have before professed not to philosophise, and we restrain ourselves from farther digression here. But when there stands beside the path of our narrative a character so truly respectable as that of Mrs. Markham, we cannotresist the inclination to notice and eulogise it. Much talk has been made of the dignity of females in the higher walks of life, and many fine and interesting specimens have been handed up to the world of rustic purity and simplicity; but the character of Markham’s mother belongs not to either of these classes. Hers was a moral, natural, essential dignity: it was not stateliness and pomp, for in her situation these would have been ridiculous, and of consequence undignified. Nature often gives to individuals in every rank of life a species of inalienable nobility, and sometimes denies even to some in the highest walks that nobility of character, by which alone the artificial nobility of civilised society can be properly upheld in its dignity.
All this our readers know as well as we do; and we have not mentioned it by way of instruction or discovery, but simply to let them understand the character of Markham’s mind as having been in its earliest developments under the guidance of a mother of this description, and as having received no ordinary portion ofthe same spirit. The meeting of the mother and the son was not quite so painful as had been the meeting of the father and the son; for the agitation which Mr. Markham had attributed to her had been more in his own feelings than in hers.
The Markhams were what is called old-fashioned people: not that their manners or opinions really coincided with the manners and opinions of any by-gone age or past generation, but because their notions were somewhat romantic, and their manners somewhat formal. They had their own peculiar views of objects; and in these they differed from their contemporaries, and therefore they were called old-fashioned. They would have been quite as old-fashioned a thousand years ago: for the past is the repository in which imagination finds its stock of virtues. They were people of integrity of spirit and of great moral purity, of mild, not cold decorum. They were scrupulously punctual and exact; and therefore when necessity prevented punctuality in that mostdelicate of all points, the payment of accounts, they felt it as a severe and painful affliction.
From what we have said of the family, their character and circumstances, our readers may readily imagine the feelings with which the younger Markham quitted his mother. In the minds of some there is a lurking suspicion that these people were proud, and that in order to preserve fairness and honesty in our descriptions and representations, we should acknowledge that much of their then suffering arose from pride. Perhaps it might be so. Let it be acknowledged. We can only say that it would have been much better for the Earl and Countess of Trimmerstone had they possessed more of that species of pride which abounded in the humbler family of Markham: then would his lordship have avoided the mortification of dependence; then would his lordship have avoided the degradation of associating with divers gentlemen of the fancy, and the perplexity of losing his money to them; then would his lordship have escaped the lectures of thepolice magistrate, as touching a quarrel with Mr. Isaac Solomons, junior, of St. Mary Axe, and also as touching a squabble with the watchmen in connexion with Mr. Singleton Sloper; and then would her ladyship also have escaped an ill-assorted marriage with one who had no regard for her, and an elopement with one of the dirtiest coxcombs that ever perfumed and disgraced humanity. There is a pride which has its uses and benefits.
When Markham the younger had prepared himself for a painful and distressing meeting with his mother, he was agreeably disappointed to find her so very calm and composed; and it also gave him satisfaction to hear that the state of affairs was not quite so bad as from his father’s letter he had been led to imagine. A composition indeed had been offered, or rather proposed; for as yet the poor man had merely ascertained his inability to meet all the claims upon him, and he had found himself in a reduced state, but he hardly knew how much or how little he was reduced. Mrs. Markham, who was a woman of business and of good understanding,and who, though not gratuitously and curiously interfering, had examined and investigated the pecuniary difficulties, gave to her son a more particular statement than his father’s nervous and agitated frame of mind would allow him to do. From this statement it appeared that the sum required to meet the exigencies of the case was altogether within the compass of the young man’s power. This thought dispersed much of the uneasiness which he had felt at first receiving the painful intelligence. Not entirely however was his mind freed from perplexity; for he had doubts and fears concerning his father’s willingness to accept relief from such quarter. Nor was it altogether without some disagreeable feelings that the young man contemplated the loss of the first-fruits of his professional success. On the other hand, it was a high gratification to him that it was in his power to avert a heavy affliction from those parents to whom he owed so much.
Some very profound philosophers, who are a great deal wiser than we are or ever wish to be,are of opinion that mankind are not under very great obligations to parents, and that parents having a pleasure in doing the best they can for their offspring, and feeling a satisfaction in making all manner of sacrifices for their children, have their reward and motive in the very acts themselves, and therefore deserve no very particular thanks or expressions of gratitude. For whatsoever any one finds pleasure in doing, has not the character of virtue, or the power of binding or leading another to gratitude. So to illustrate this philosophy, we may state the matter thus. If a benefactor can truly say to the object of his benevolence or benefaction, “I thoroughly hate, and most cordially detest you; and I have not any pleasure, but rather a great deal of pain, in doing you any kind offices; and it would give me much greater satisfaction to see you starve, than to be conscious that you are enjoying any of the blessings of life;”—then the benefaction is most truly disinterested, and the recipient is bound to be truly grateful. Though we must acknowledge ourselves puzzled to know where to find such disinterested goodness;therefore, in the mean time, we will patiently put up with such benevolence as the world supplies us with; and we will explain away and apologise for any feelings of gratitude which we may entertain towards benefactors and friends, by saying, that our gratitude is not exercised towards them because they deserve it, but because we like it, and it is exceedingly pleasant to ourselves to think and speak handsomely of those who have been the means of doing us good.
It is, no doubt, only on this ground that we can account for so sensible a man as Horatio Markham being grateful to his parents for the sacrifices which they had made, for the purpose of establishing him in that possession to which his taste and ambition were so strongly directed.
“I have neither wit nor words nor worth,Action or utterance or the power of speech,To stir men’s blood. I only speak right on.”Shakspeare.
“I have neither wit nor words nor worth,Action or utterance or the power of speech,To stir men’s blood. I only speak right on.”Shakspeare.
“I have neither wit nor words nor worth,
Action or utterance or the power of speech,
To stir men’s blood. I only speak right on.”
Shakspeare.
Now during the first day of Markham’s visit to his parents no progress had been made in the matter of business, for as yet the answers of the creditors had not been received. The elder Markham had sent off by the same post the letter to his son, and those which were destined for his creditors. That which hadbeen sent to his son was first answered, as we have stated.
On the morning, therefore, after the young man’s arrival, the coming of the postman was anxiously looked for by all three. The father, indeed, seemed more and more dejected; and ever and anon, instead of taking notice of his wife and son, he muttered to himself, “They won’t accept a composition; I am sure they won’t; it was foolish of me to expect it.”
This was at the breakfast-table; and when either his wife or son urged him to partake of the morning meal, he coldly said, “It is not mine, it belongs to my creditors.” That was very true; but it was distressing to his family to hear such language; and that not merely because it was true, but because it indicated a bitterness of soul in him who used it.
No answer was made; for neither mother nor son had steadiness enough to trust themselves to speak to one who was under the influence of such distressful feelings. They sat at the breakfast-table beyond their usual time, and the postman brought no letters.The elder Markham looked wildly and distractedly, and he said, “Pray give me the letters; let me know the worst. I can very well bear it.” But when they told him that no letters were arrived, he smiled incredulously, and replied, “It is very kind and considerate of you, that you will break the matter to me gradually.”
“Indeed, my dear,” replied Mrs. Markham, “there are no letters this morning.”
“Then they have detained the letters in the shop,” said Mr. Markham; “I will go and fetch them.”
He rose for the purpose, but he presently returned; and just as he was at the door of the apartment, he hastily came back again, and resuming his seat, he covered his face with his hands, and said, in a melancholy under tone, “Oh! I can never show my face there again.”
The poor man’s distress now increased to a degree that rendered it almost as painful to witness as to bear. It is indeed hardly to be imagined to what excess it might have proceeded, had it not been for an interruption of apeculiar and unexpected nature. This was the appearance of the principal creditor, whose high opinion of Mr. Markham’s integrity would not permit him to satisfy himself with a mere letter of reply to the communication which he had received from the embarrassed tradesman.
There was ushered into the apartment where the family was sitting a very tall thin man, in a long single-breasted drab coat of the finest cloth that was ever woven, and wearing a hat which in its shape and expression so sympathised with the wearer’s look, that the hat and the head seemed made for each other. The visitor stalked directly and undeviatingly up to the elder Markham, took hold of the poor man’s hand, squeezed it very hard, and shook it very violently; and after performing this ceremony in total silence, and with most unperturbable steadiness of look, he then spoke with a shrill nasal twang, at the very top of his voice; “Neighbour Markham, I am sorry to see thee.”
This unusually loud noise and strange-sounding voice was quite a relief to the party, who had that morning held intercourse witheach other only in low murmurings and subdued and sorrowful tones. To such a greeting, on such an occasion, Mr. Markham felt it difficult to reply. He only shook his head, and said, “I am sorry to see you, sir.”
Thereupon the man in drab, who had taken a seat by the side of poor Mr. Markham, and had crossed his extended legs and clasped his long fingers, leaving only his thumbs at liberty to move, screwed up his lips as tight as a miser’s purse, and, as if economical of words, uttered through the nose a sound which no vowels or consonants in any European alphabet are competent to express, either severally or conjointly. As it oftentimes occurs that words are used when no meaning is conveyed, so does it on the other hand sometimes happen that much meaning is conveyed when no words are uttered. Thus it was on the occasion to which we now allude. Mr. Markham was familiar with the above-named unwriteable sound; and he knew that it indicated in the mind of him, through whose nose it passed, a feeling of compassion and a promise of kindness.
Turning to Mrs. Markham, the visitor said, “Mary Markham, this is thy son, probably.” On this, Horatio Markham took occasion to speak to the creditor, and began by saying,
“I am very much concerned, sir, for the unpleasant situation in which my father is now placed; but I believe we shall be able to surmount the difficulty, if not immediately, at least in a very short time.”
“Do thee, indeed?” said the Quaker; and without making more reply, or vouchsafing to the young gentleman any farther attention, he directed himself again to the elder Markham, and said to him, “Thy son is a promising young man.”
“I have reason, Mr. Wiggins, to be very well pleased with my son; he is indeed a blessing to us.”
“Neighbour Markham, my name is Wiggins; but my name is not Mister. But let us proceed to business; for to that intent I came hither.”
Thereupon the creditor thrust his long arm into a deep side-pocket, and extracted therefrom a long black letter-case, and from thatletter-case he drew out the letter which he had received from Mr. Markham.
“Neighbour,” said the Quaker, “thee might be disposed to think that I had forgotten thee, seeing that thy letter did not receive an immediate answer: but I was willing to see thy other creditors to know how they stood inclined towards thee. So yesterday we had a meeting.”
“A meeting of my creditors!” exclaimed Mr. Markham, with great emphasis of grief; “Oh God! that I should ever come to this!”
“Thee will come to something worse, neighbour Markham, if thee don’t leave off taking the name of the Lord in vain,” replied Mr. Wiggins; “but thee is impatient; thee will not listen. I tell thee that there has been a meeting of thy creditors, and they are sorry for thy misfortunes, and they are disposed to assist thee. They respect thy integrity; but they would not have thee take the name of the Lord in vain. It is a sad thing, neighbour, to want money; but it is worse to want patience: thee will never get rich by putting thyself in apassion. But thy creditors will not trouble thee at present. They besought me to tell thee that they would wait thy own time.”
At this information Mr. Markham shook his head mournfully. There are those who when in trouble are exceeding sceptical as to good tidings, and are slow to believe what pretends to promise them good. Poor Mr. Markham was of that description. He hardly liked to have the pathos of his deep sorrow interrupted or interfered with. But his son Horatio was a man of more words and somewhat less formality. He readily expressed his thanks to the principal creditor, but at the same time added,
“I trust, sir, there will be no necessity for any long forbearance; had my father stated all the particulars to me before he wrote to his creditors, I believe there would not have been found any occasion for the step which he has now taken. I will be answerable—”
Here Mr. Wiggins interrupted the young barrister. “Young man, be not in too great haste to part with thy money; thee has not been in possession of it long enough to know itsweight.” Then turning to the elder Markham, he said, “Neighbour Markham, thee shall go on with thy business, and if thee needs any supply, thy credit is good with me yet. Let thy son keep that which he has earned. Farewell.”
Not a word that could be said, nor any entreaties whatever were effectual to detain the strange Mr. Wiggins a moment after he had said farewell. It seemed to him a matter of conscience to depart as soon as he had uttered the word which indicated the intention of going.
The spirits of the elder Markham were not cheered by that visit which was designed to remove an oppressive weight of sorrow from his mind. The very consideration that there had been any thing like a necessity for proposing a composition weighed very deeply upon him, and produced serious illness.
Markham, whose intention it had been to make a short visit to his native place, now found himself powerfully and indeed irresistibly detained. It was not indeed absolutely necessary for him to be in town at this time; and had even his professional occupations urged hisattendance, it is more than probable that their importunity would have been disregarded: for it is not likely that his father’s commercial perplexities should have commanded his sympathies more strongly than an actual sickness.
Our English proverbs are not frequently to our taste; for many of them want point, not a few are destitute of truth, and most of those which are correct are cold common-place truisms. There is, however, one which occurs at the present juncture, not indeed very graceful in its expression or profound in its observation, but having in its meaning and application a moral lesson which cannot be too frequently or too earnestly inculcated on the misery-loving and ever-grumbling people of this most highly-favored land. The proverb to which our allusion points is as follows, “It is an ill wind that blows nobody good.” Certainly it was not pleasant to the father of Horatio Markham to be so situated that he must be within a little of bankruptcy. Certainly it was not pleasant to the young man to find that his professional success should in its earliest stagesbe destined to repair the ravages which untoward circumstances had made in his father’s property. Certainly it was very painful to see that after this calamity had been partially healed, or at least palliated, his poor father had so taken to heart the unexpected affliction, as to suffer from its influences a severe bodily illness. Certainly it was mortifying to the young man who was looking upwards in society, and was in the way of what is called making his fortune, to have this sudden and unforeseen blight coming over his fair hopes. Certainly also there was something sorrowful to his soul in the consideration that at the very moment in which there seemed a probability that his attachment to Clara might be honorably avowed, he should be called away from scenes of hope and brightness and opulence, to a house of fear, of gloom, of poverty.
These circumstances gathering together round the mind of our young friend perplexed and pained him. It is very true that he was perfectly well acquainted with all the commonplaces of consolation, and he knew that therenot unfrequently arises good out of evil. But what does knowledge amount to in the way of consolation? He saw no particular good end likely to be answered by all these perplexities; but he saw, or thought he saw, a great evil as the probable result of them. He had left London without giving notice to any of his friends; and the business on which he visited the country was not one which he was very desirous of advertising. He therefore very naturally thought that Clara would suppose that he was not very anxious to renew the acquaintance with her; and he also contemplated the possibility of some more rational being than Tippetson making advances more acceptably and successfully. This thought was a source of uneasiness to him, and he could not see any mode of communicating to Mr. Martindale the cause of his sudden absence from town. He had thought that a day or two would suffice, and that in that short time he should not be missed; but now he found that he was likely to be detained much longer; and should he on his return to London state that his father’s illness had delayed him in the countrybeyond his intention, there would still be something remarkable in the fact of his hasty and silent departure from town.
He therefore thought that this illness was most peculiarly unfortunate and calamitous, as not only being distressing to his parents, but probably productive of serious inconvenience to himself.
We have already intimated that Horatio Markham was deficient in some of those qualities that form a hero. Here we have occasion to repeat the observation. His want of heroism was manifested in several points alluded to in the present chapter. For had he been a proper hero, he would never have suffered Mr. Wiggins to grant any thing of indulgence to the embarrassed shopkeeper, but he would forthwith have paid to the utmost every farthing of the debt to him and the other creditors, had he been under the necessity for that purpose of parting with his library and every saleable article in his possession, even to his very watch. Had he been a proper hero, he would have regarded with more apathy andmagnanimity a commercial failure. Had he been a proper hero, he would not have admitted the possibility that there could exist on the face of the earth any human being but himself worthy of Clara’s hand, or likely to obtain it. Had he been a proper hero, he would not have been quite so shy, as he clearly was, of the fact that his father kept a linen-draper’s shop in a country town.
We have represented Horatio Markham as a man of talent and general good judgment, but we have not described him as a paragon of all possible and impossible excellence. He was a steady, quiet, sober, clear-headed man, who understood his professional and his moral duties, who gave himself seriously to the business to which he was brought up, and who wished very naturally to rise in the world. In a very high degree he was early successful; but he was not vain of that success, nor did he think himself the greatest or the only genius in the world. In matters of intellect he was unpretending, and in matters of a moral nature pure and conscientious.
As he had proceeded he became more ambitious; and by the distinguished patronage which he enjoyed, he hoped to take ultimately a higher rank in society than at the commencement of his career he had anticipated. He had hoped that his parents, either by his own exertions or by their circumstances, might soon retire from business; but when instead of this retirement he found that there was pecuniary embarrassment which he could not easily, if at all, remove, he was severely disappointed; and when in addition to this the illness of his father detained him from town and from Clara, he feared the worst that could happen. Nor could he imagine that in this complication of unfortunate and perplexing circumstances there was any good likely to arise either to himself or to any one else. But he was wrong; for the illness of the father was the means of deciding the destiny of the son’s life.
“To deal in wordy complimentIs much against the plainness of my nature.”Rowe.
“To deal in wordy complimentIs much against the plainness of my nature.”Rowe.
“To deal in wordy compliment
Is much against the plainness of my nature.”
Rowe.
Considering the language with which the preceding chapter is closed, it would not be decorous to fly off in a tangent to discuss the movements of other characters in our narrative; though we may very well suppose that some of our readers would be glad to know how the Right Hon. the Earl of Trimmerstone bears his retirement, and how he looks in his reformedcondition. Nothing more, however, does it suit us now to state on this head, than that orders had been given, and were rapidly proceeding in their execution, for the repair and reformation of Trimmerstone Hall, and that his lordship found some amusement in superintending these repairs.
In the mean time, however, Mr. Martindale, who was aware that it would be doing more harm than good to supply his noble relative’s extravagance with unlimited means of indulgence, thought that he should do his lordship more essential service by procuring him some appointment, which might have at least the semblance of occupation for him. With this view he waited upon the nobleman whom we have before mentioned as having patronised Horatio Markham. Here we are strongly tempted to observe how inaccurate is our ordinary language. We call men high in office, men in power. This is wrong. They find that the higher they rise, the more circumscribed is their power. The greater is their patronage, the less able are they to do as they will. Acountry parson has power to appoint his own curate; a country squire may choose whom he will for butler, coachman, or footman; but they who have the distribution of better things than curacies and coach-boxes, have to consult and to be guided by many more wills, minds, and opinions than their own.
Mr. Martindale found this to be the case with the nobleman to whom he made application in the present instance. Nothing could be more cordial or polite than the reception which Mr. Martindale experienced, and nothing could be more gratifying than the kind attention wherewith his lordship made inquiry after the health of the various members of his family. But when the business was mentioned for which the call was made, nothing could exceed the regret which his lordship felt and expressed that at present he had it not in his power to accommodate so respectable and valued a friend as Mr. Martindale. There was certainly sincerity in these expressions, though probably they were used with little variation of phraseology to many others. It would have beenmuch more agreeable to his lordship had it been in his power to grant many more requests, and to oblige many more friends; but, as he himself said to Mr. Martindale, he actually had for every place at his disposal at least fifty applications, and many of them accompanied with recommendations and arguments of a most pressing nature.
As Mr. Martindale was a reasonable man, and one to whom his lordship could speak freely, there soon sprung up between them some conversation on the topic of patronage.
“I assure you, Mr. Martindale,” said his lordship, “it is by no means correct to say that Ienjoythe distribution of patronage. It is an affair of constant perplexity; and I sometimes am tempted to wish that some of the public grumblers were placed for a while in my situation. They would then see that it is not the easiest matter in the world to please every body.”
“I dare say not, I dare say not, my lord,” replied Mr. Martindale; “we cannot administer our own affairs to please every body, and it isnot easier to give satisfaction by the administration of public affairs. I will not fly out into discontent and opposition, because I cannot have every thing I wish for my scape-grace kinsman.”
The distributer of patronage smiled, and replied, “It is not every one that is so considerate, Mr. Martindale. There was a situation vacant some time ago, and I disposed of it to a young man of no family or connexion, and with whom I was made acquainted by mere accident, and whom I took up purely on the ground of his good sense and honorable application to business, and I find that I was abundantly right in the judgment which I formed. But I was afterwards exposed to so much expostulation and reproof from quarters where you might least expect it, that I am almost afraid of following my own judgment in the most trifling matters that relate to the public service.”
“I know,” replied Mr. Martindale, “the person to whom your lordship alludes: he is certainly a man of most excellent mental and moral qualities.”
“And for a man of real ability,” added his lordship, “the most unpretending and unassuming I ever knew. He carries his reserve to an excess; for I never see him here among my visitors.”
Now, as Mr. Martindale was an impetuous and hasty man, and was withal mightily partial to this said Horatio Markham, he forgot for a time his noble kinsman, and after taking leave of his lordship, he went immediately to Markham’s chambers to give him a hint that it might be advisable to pay a little more attention to his patron. It also occurred to the old gentleman that he himself had not seen Markham for several days; so he designed to give him also an intimation concerning that neglect.
Greatly to the surprise of the old gentleman, Markham was not in town; and more than that, his clerk could not say for a certainty when he would be in town. Upon receiving this information, Mr. Martindale took the liberty of inquiring very particularly and curiously to find out where he was, and what was the occasion of his absence. Now, when a rich oldman asks questions, a poor young man is ready enough to answer them according to the best of his ability, unless he have some especial reason for concealment. There being with Markham’s clerk no such reason, he endeavoured to give Mr. Martindale the benefit of all his knowledge together with the result of his conjectures. From all that could be gathered from this informant, it appeared that Markham was with his parents, and that his father was unwell.
Now Mr. Martindale did not blame the young man for visiting a sick parent, but he thought it very strange that he should make a secret of his departure from town. It was therefore the old gentleman’s first intention to send a note to his young friend reminding him of the neglect with which he had unintentionally treated his kind and considerate patron; but as the town where Markham’s father resided was not much out of the line of road leading to Trimmerstone, and as the old gentleman was especially fond of a personal intermeddlement with brick and mortar, he conceived the design ofpaying a visit to Trimmerstone Hall, and calling upon Markham in his way there.
The old gentleman found his way into the little parlour at the back of the shop in the same manner as when he first introduced himself, as stated in the commencement of our narrative. His appearance, on the present occasion, did not excite less surprise, than when he first made himself known to them. When he entered the apartment, the elder Markham was sitting by the fire-side in an easy chair, and had the appearance of one slowly recovering from a long illness. His countenance was much changed, and he looked considerably older than when Mr. Martindale first saw him. The old gentleman was a very observant, quick-sighted man, and had a perfect recollection of Mr. Markham’s appearance when he had seen him in health. He was sorry to see him so much altered, and he expressed his concern accordingly. Mr. Markham attempted to rise. Mr. Martindale quickly caught hold of his hand, and almost too roughly for an invalid forced him back into his chair.
“Sit down, my good friend, sit down. I hate ceremony. Sorry to see you so ill. Your son never let me know any thing of your indisposition.” Then addressing himself to Horatio Markham, he went on, “So, Mr. Barrister, you left town in so great a hurry, you could not condescend to give me notice of your departure.”
The younger Markham was about to speak, but Mr. Martindale waited not for a reply. He proceeded to make more minute inquiries concerning the illness of Mr. Markham the elder; but was not patient enough to wait for distinct and separate answers. When a person in high spirits and of natural hastiness of manner enters into any thing of a conversation with others who are not in high spirits, he does not immediately notice the contrast, for the loud crowing of his own voice is for a time a reflection of his own cheerful thoughts; but even vivacity needs sympathy to support it, and cannot long exist without. And when the first rush of hasty greeting is over, then it is seen and felt that the vivacity is not mutual, and then the cheerfulness abates. So fared it with Mr. Martindale,who was for his years a man of astonishing vivacity and activity. He soon perceived that there was a depression of spirits in the family, and he rebuked himself for the almost levity of manner with which he had addressed them. He then went on to talk common-place, and took an opportunity of hinting to Horatio that it would be proper for him to pay a little more homage to his patron. The mention of this brought some observations from Mrs. Markham, acknowledging Mr. Martindale’s kindness in taking notice of her son.
“Madam,” replied the old gentleman, “I think it an honor to have your son’s acquaintance; and I wish he would not be quite so diffident of himself. He is in the way to preferment; but he must not forget that though such men as his noble patron may be ready enough to reward merit, they have no time to hunt about for it.”
Mrs. Markham had, as we have observed, a degree of pride, and being the mother of a son who was a young man of rather superior understanding, she supposed that he was far above all the rest of the world, and must make his way by dintof his own natural talents: therefore, as if she imagined that her son required and needed no other patronage than the power of his own mind, she replied,
“I feel very highly gratified, sir, by the kindness which my son has experienced from you, but I wish that his success in the world may be rather owing to his own merit than to patronage.”
“Madam,” replied Mr. Martindale, “your notions are very good for the country; but London is a very large place, and those who have talents must advertise them by some means or other. I am an old man, I have seen something of the world, and I can tell you what I have seen; I have seen talents lost, ruined, buried alive, rendered useless, ay, worse than useless, a very torment to their possessors, because they have had a pragmatical conceit that they must be independent of patronage. Excuse me, my good lady, I am an oddity I know. Now let me ask you one question. If you wished to go to the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral, which way would you go?”
Mrs. Markham smiled at the oddness of the illustration, and replied, “Of course, sir, I should go the usual way up the stairs.”
“To be sure you would,” replied Mr. Martindale; “but if, under the notion of independence, you should attempt to climb up without the usual assistance of common-place steps, you would find yourself miserably disappointed. I tell you what, Mrs. Markham, I hate sycophancy and fawning as much as you can do; and I should be no real friend to your son, did I recommend him to adopt such means of advancing himself in the world. But there is a fault on the other side; there is an affectation of independence. Now this affectation neither the mob nor the aristocracy can endure. As for your son, he can only rise by means of his talents; he has nothing else to go to market with; he has no votes or borough-interest wherewith to bribe ministers, and no pompous foolery of speechification wherewith to purchase the approbation of the mob. I respect him for his plain straightforward good sense, and if my cub of a cousin, who has made his nobilityridiculous by his slip-shod dignity and equivocal respectability, had possessed those qualities which your son possesses, he might be called Right Honorable with a serious countenance.”
This was the first time that Mr. Martindale had given way to such serious reprobation of his noble relative. Our readers will, for Markham’s sake, be glad to hear that the young gentleman had left the room before this speech was uttered. There was so much seriousness in the language and manner of expression, that though Mrs. Markham would to a person of her own rank in life have ventured to make some reply of alleviation, but to a person so much her superior as Mr. Martindale she was silent. The talk then took another direction; but Mr. Markham the elder did not join in the conversation, except so far as to express his acknowledgment to Mr. Martindale for the kindness which he had shown to the young man.
The singular old gentleman then took his leave, almost as abruptly as he had entered thehouse. It is, perhaps, one of the most difficult lessons which persons in a certain rank have to learn, to know how to manage condescension well. When a person of this rank converses with an inferior with a temporary assumption of equality, there generally exists in the mind of the inferior a feeling of awkward restraint, and a consciousness that this aspect or tone of equality is merely put on, and rises not from any feeling on the part of the individual so condescending of the natural equality of the species: and in the apparent equality, greatness is always jealous of encroachments. It was, however, a favorite amusement with Mr. Martindale, under pretence of not regarding the artificial distinctions of society, to hold free and unrestrained intercourse with persons of every rank and of no rank; but he could never divest himself of the tone and air of dogmatism. He always spoke as if he thought himself Sir Oracle: yet nevertheless he was very good-humored withal, and had, amidst all his oddities, a great benevolence of feeling and disposition.
As we have noticed the inaptitude withwhich greatness sometimes condescends, it may not be improper, on the other hand, to observe that in those of inferior rank there is not unfrequently on such occasions either a mean servility or a jealous suspicion, that the great one so condescending thinks more of his superiority than he really does.
These mutual inaptitudes are great means of preserving, even in a civilised country, the strong distinction of caste. But in the interview which Mr. Martindale had with the parents of Horatio Markham there was very little of this awkwardness, and the old gentleman afterwards observed that Mrs. Markham was one of the most sensible women he had ever seen.